The Marked Bride (Shadow Watchers Book 1) Read online

  “I know it is terrible to bother you with questions, but time isn’t on our side. If we’re going to stand a chance of catching whoever did this . . .”

  Get it together, Mandy. Clear your mind. Focus. “I understand. Go ahead.”

  “You say there was no one else, so I have to ask.” His voice softened. “Did you kill your mother?”

  “What?”

  “I have to ask,” he repeated. “It’s my job, Mandy.”

  “I told you. It’s been her and me my whole life.” Mandy looked him right in the eye, let him see her pain. Alone. Vulnerable. Lost. Empty. “She was all I have.” Her broken heart shattered again. “No, Detective. I didn’t kill her.”

  His expression didn’t alter. “Where were you at about six tonight?”

  Routine questions? Or he suspected her, anyway? Could that be possible? Seriously? That it might, strained at her fragile composure and the fissure of fear she’d been fighting internally cracked wider, stretched and yawned like a canyon. “Buying the groceries I needed. I told you, I came over to make her dinner.”

  “Sir?” the uniformed officer interrupted. “Timed receipt. She was at the store at 6:10.”

  “So Miss Dixon is clear?” Walton pointedly asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thanks.” Walton looked back at her. “Sorry, Miss Dixon. I want to find who did this to your mother. I can’t take anything for granted.”

  A part of her felt deeply offended, but the more practical side she used to run her jewelry store appreciated his thorough approach. “No problem.” A hard lump settled in her chest. Who could have done this? What was done? “How did she . . .?” Mandy couldn’t say the word out loud. Her voice failed. She ordered herself to be strong, to suck it up, and tried again. “How was my mother murdered?”

  “She was shot, Miss Dixon.”

  “Shot?” That stunned Mandy.

  “We received a shots fired call—from the neighbor. Remember?”

  A shadowed memory returned. Walton telling her that the flower-lady neighbor had heard gunfire and called the police. “Yes, I remember now.”

  “Your mother was shot,” he repeated slowly, as if realizing Mandy needed still more time to absorb and process.

  She did need more time. None of this fit. It just didn’t. “But my mother hated guns and forbid them in the house.” Mandy looked from the crime-scene tape, twisting and crackling in the wind, back to Walton. “She must have known the person.”

  “Or he or she entered the house without your mother knowing it.”

  That was possible, and a little less terrifying. A stranger was bad, but someone you knew turning on you like that had to be worse.

  “Excuse me, sir.” Hank again interrupted. “May I speak to you a second?”

  The detective stood up and stepped away, down to the end of the wide front porch, beyond the tall fichus, near the two white rockers. “What is it, Hank?” Walton asked, his voice carrying clearly to Mandy, still seated on the step.

  “We found the point of entry in her bedroom—a window close to the corner of the house.”

  “Get forensics on it. Maybe we’ll get lucky and pick up some prints.” The detective looked over the slope of his shoulder at Mandy and elevated his voice. “Do you live here, Miss Dixon? With your mom, I mean?”

  “No. I have a house on the water near my jewelry store.”

  “And so far as you know, no one else has been here. Just you, when you visit, and your mom.”

  Guilt stabbed at her. “I haven’t seen anyone else here, and she hasn’t mentioned anyone else being here.” True, but not the whole truth. They didn’t talk about her father, so she honestly didn’t know if he had been here. Did he still come over every Tuesday? Mandy had no idea but, if she were a betting woman, she would bet he did. Today, however, was Thursday. From the time she was born until she had left and built her own home, she knew of no time when Charles Travest ever deviated from his scheduled Tuesday visits.

  Had he deviated today?

  Could he have killed her mother?

  Honestly, she didn’t know. Uncertainty had her again clammy and breaking into a cold sweat. He had been decent and kind to her mother and to her, and Mandy had never seen a hint of violence in him. But he’d been always been clear. If either of them crossed his lines . . .

  Lines like the one her mother had set against her marrying Tim. It isn’t just your life you’re putting at risk . . .

  Oh, yes. The warning had been clear and irrevocable.

  Mandy’s chest grew heavy, her heart tattered and weary. She could, and probably should mention that. But she didn’t dare.

  Tim.

  Oh, you’ve no idea how badly I wish I could talk to you. You’d know what to do. Tears threatened. She swallowed hard three times, trying to avoid them. I—I don’t know what to do…

  Tuesday, October 21st

  Five days later, the coroner released the body. Mandy had made arrangements with a local funeral home and withstood, without withering, the director’s surprise that there’d be no service other than graveside.

  The world spun on, seemingly unchanged and without notice—as arrogant as can be to someone heartbroken and mourning—and the sun shone and laughter flowed, grating at her eyes and ears and every frayed nerve in her body. For everyone else, it was a normal, largely unremarkable day.

  For Mandy it was terrifying.

  Little memories of her mother ran like film loops through her mind. Last week, last month, her childhood. Regardless of what she did, they wouldn’t turn off. She considered going to the jewelry store to work, but she couldn’t think; she’d only be in the way. Her assistant manager, Erin, had things well in hand there, so Mandy stayed home.

  She’d spent years dreaming of her business and more years building it, but today she honestly couldn’t care less about it. It, or anything else. Grief ruled, and ravaged and tormented her. Too weakened to fight it, she curled up on the sofa in her bathrobe with a box of tissues and let herself grieve. She had no one now. No one who cared if she lived or died. No one for her to care about or to share triumphs or troubles. No one to comfort her and assure her that no matter how dark things were now, they wouldn’t always be dark.

  This too shall pass. She tried comforting herself.

  It rang hollow, like tin to her ears. Would it pass? Logically, she believed it would. But her heart doubted it, bombarding her with questions she didn’t want to hear much less try to answer. Is this all there really is to life? If so, why bother?

  Aching, lost, Mandy cried until she had no more tears, then cried some more. And long after the arrogant sun set for the day and the pink streaks in the sky faded to deep blue, she lay curled on her sofa, hugging the box of tissues, half of which lay wadded on the coffee table. Help me find my way. Can you just please help me find my way?

  The following Friday, Mandy stood on the outskirts of Maddsen Cemetery at her mother’s graveside. She’d always said that’s where she wanted to be buried.

  It was a picturesque small cemetery, very peaceful and shaded by huge, old oaks. Fresh flowers always sprinkled the graves; Mandy had seen them many times when driving by.

  Thunder rumbled overhead.

  It wasn’t supposed to rain today so no tent stood stretched above the coffin to protect it or mourners from the weather. It sat in the open above the gaping hole prepared to receive it once the service was done.

  In the distance, lightning flashed. The faint scent of it carried on the wind. The minister she’d hired reacted accordingly and spoke faster, but not fast enough. Mid-service, the sky split open and rain poured down, pinging against the top and sides of the coffin, spitting droplets that pounded the flowers placed on its top. Water gathered among the leaves and spilled over, running in rivulets down the coffin’s coppery sides and dripping off into the gaping hole.

  God was mourning with her.

  The thought oddly comforted Mandy, and she opened her umbrella, held it over herself
and the minister. Between intermittent claps of thunder and jagged streaks and flashes of lightning, she listened to him lay her mother’s body to rest.

  When he was done, she couldn’t recall a word he’d said. Over and again in her mind, she’d remembered herself as a child playing wedding with her mother. Her mother at the piano, playing the Wedding March, while Mandy walked down a makeshift aisle of throw-rugs with a scarf-draped lampshade on her head. Her mother always added an extra note at the end of the chorus. They’d giggled about it so many times. It’s my signature note, darling . . .

  The minister claimed her attention. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Miss Dixon. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Pity burned in his eyes. Pity and curiosity that she’d stood alone to bury her mother.

  She’d covertly notified Charles Travest of her mother’s passing, and until she had stood through the service with only her and the minister present, she had believed her father would be here. Not that he’d said he would, but because he loved her mother. She’d even held out a glimmer of hope that, while he wouldn’t live his life with his daughter, he would at least mourn her mother’s passing with her. Yet, he had failed them again. One more time in a long list of times.

  Oh, Mandy had sensed him nearby. Somewhere in the distant shadows watching the service. But he hadn’t risked actually coming to the service or showing his face. Coward.

  Cowardly, yes, and unfortunately typical for him. He hadn’t phoned, emailed, or even sent her mother flowers with an impersonal note. No one had. The lone bouquet on top of the casket, Mandy had ordered. A white rose in her hand was the only other flower for her mother.

  A tidal wave of new resentment washed over Mandy, partnered with the old. She steeled herself against its weight, lifted her chin, and then answered the minister. “No, there’s nothing to be done, but thank you. I’m fine on my own.”

  She placed the rose onto her mother’s coffin with a loving stroke, and then turned and walked away.

  Safely in her car, she blotted the rain from her face and arms with a tissue, then drove off . . . and cried all the way home, shedding the tears she hadn’t permitted herself to shed at the service.

  Why couldn’t she cry? Would that be so awful—to cry at your own mother’s funeral?

  Maybe not for ordinary people. But they were not ordinary. Her mother wouldn’t approve the absence of emotional control; she never had. But even if she didn’t disapprove this time, under these circumstances, she would need to know Mandy would be all right without her as much as Mandy needed to know her mother was all right now that she’d passed. Tears would rock her mother’s confidence. Mandy couldn’t do that. She wanted to imagine her mother resting in peace, not worried sick her daughter was a basket case.

  That night, alone on her backyard deck, Mandy sat staring at the phone used only for secure conversations between Tim and her. Since dusk, she’d picked it up and put it back down on the little wooden side table a thousand times. Once, she’d even dialed him. Well, all but the last number. Then her mother’s warning came rushing back, kicking in, and Mandy had set the phone down and had not touched it again.

  Now, she fell to temptation and reached for it. She wouldn’t call Tim, but she would send him a text message. He was free to respond or not without a direct confrontation. She could live with that—and if she didn’t talk to someone, she was surely going to lose what was left of her mind. No one was safer or more trustworthy than Tim Branson.

  Still, her heart beat hard and fast. She keyed in the text then stared at it a long moment. Her hands shook, her pulse throbbed in her throat, her head. Please, don’t let this be a mistake. Please . . .

  Before she could second-guess herself yet again or let fear back her down and force her to change her mind, she quickly pushed Send.

  Chapter 2

  Friday, October 24th

  Seagrove Village, Florida

  The former five-member team of Shadow Watchers entered Mark Taylor’s Seagrove Village home single-file.

  Tim Branson, wearing perfectly creased khaki slacks and a butter-yellow golf shirt, led the way, stepping past Mark, their former team leader and current head of their private security consulting firm. Tim, second in command, narrowed his eyes. “You’re wearing an apron, Mark?”

  “Hurry and get in here, and shut the door.” Mark headed back toward the kitchen. “If I burn this . . . stuff, Lisa will have my head on a platter.”

  “We’ve seen your head in worse places.” Sam sauntered in, bearing a strong resemblance to a younger Larry the Cable Guy down to his ripped out sleeves, jean shorts and flip-flops—Florida formal. “But I gotta tell you, buddy, that red apron don’t do a thing for ya. Maybe next time try a deeper red.”

  “Spoken like a true Alabama redneck.” Mark hustled back to the stove. “Remind me again why we consider you an invaluable member of our team.”

  “Because he’s a genius,” Tim said. “With the best nose in the South for sniffing out gaps in security, terrorist activity, and dirt no one wants anyone to find much less expose.”

  Mark cast Sam a half-sneer. “Why a deeper red apron?”

  Sam harrumphed. “That you gotta ask says more than enough about why you need me to cover your backside, buddy.”

  “He’s alluding to Crimson Tide.” Joe lifted his sunglasses from his eyes and parked them atop his head, then slid onto a stool at the breakfast bar across from the stove.

  Tim nodded his agreement. Joe was naturally cool, insightful, and one of the most well-connected investigators or special operators Tim had ever known. His go-to contacts were impressive by anyone’s standards, and his reach extended beyond known borders.

  “Dang straight, I’m talking Crimson Tide.” Sam smiled, his ball cap resting low on his forehead. “Roll Tide Roll.”

  Tim half-smiled. Sam loved football and had been an ardent Crimson Tide fan for as long as Tim had known him. None of the other guys were that attached to their alma mater teams, but they indulged Sam in his, and in his Civil War reenactments, and in his penchant for monster truck rallies. Those, Tim admitted, were intriguing. Dusty but intriguing.

  “See the emblem on it?” Mark pointed to his apron. “Seminoles.”

  “Whatever.” Sam grunted.

  “What’s the problem in there, bro?” Joe asked Mark. “I thought Lisa was cooking dinner.”

  Lisa and Mark were a couple and had been for a good while now. Why Mark didn’t get off the dime and marry the woman, only he knew. He’d been in love with her a couple years before he’d made a move. She’d been in med school and under a lot familial pressure and he hadn’t wanted to complicate her already complicated life.

  “Smells like she did cook.” Nick opened the fridge, reached in, and then and tossed the guys cans of soda. “Sorry, Sam. No canned tea.”

  The barb hit its mark and others laughed, including Tim. Sam had a cursing problem and the people at Crossroads Crisis Center—namely, its director Peggy Crane, and the village’s mother-in-chief, Nora, were bent on breaking him of it. Sam never went anywhere without a glass of iced-tea in his hand. Whenever he cursed, one of them—or one of the guys—spiked his tea with jalapeno pepper juice. He was getting the point, but he still had a way to go. Bad habits are hardest to break.

  “So where’s Lisa?” Tim asked, agreeing with Nick that the house did have a distinctive scent Tim also connected to Lisa’s cooking: Burned to a crisp. But, credit due, she tried hard, and growing up with Nora as a surrogate mom, it was hard to believe she hadn’t picked up some tips. But the evidence that she hadn’t spoke for itself. If she cooked it, she burned it.

  Maybe she didn’t want to cook, or to learn how to cook from Nora.

  Tim hadn’t considered that possibility before, but it seemed more likely than she just couldn’t cook. Lisa was a woman of many skills—a medical doctor, a self-defense instructor to at-risk women. A survivor. If she wanted to cook, she would cook. It had to be that she didn’t want to, and he
sure couldn’t fault her for that. Her days were plenty full without it. Interesting.

  Mark pulled the lid off a pot and dunked in a huge spoon. “She went home to change clothes. She’s so excited about all of you coming to dinner. We have a little announcement to make.”

  “Why’s she excited about us being here? We’re here all the time.” Tim registered the other half of Mark’s statement. “Wait. An announcement. She’s nervous.” She wouldn’t say that, she’d say excited, but nervous fit.

  “Beside herself. She wants your approval.” Mark glanced his way. “You’ll be giving it to her.”

  Message sent and received. “Got it.”

  “Biting the dust, eh?” Sam popped the question on everyone’s tongue. “So when’s the wedding?”

  Mark frowned at him, swept them all with a warning gaze. “At least fake being surprised and happy for us.”

  “Of course, we will—fake being surprised, I mean.” Joe rifled through the pantry and pulled out some chips. “We are happy for you.”

  “Dang straight. I ain’t much on marriage, but Lisa’s special. I’d consider biting the dust for her myself.”

  “She’s taken, Sam.” Mark’s tone came across extremely territorial.

  “I know, bud. I meant if she wasn’t. Like if you dumped her or something.”

  Tim and Nick grunted their disagreement. “That’s not happening.”

  “No way, bro.” Joe agreed with them.

  Nick glared at Sam. “Even if it did, Lisa isn’t your type. A redneck man needs a redneck woman. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah. But she’s awesome—for a non-redneck woman.” Sam stole the chip bowl. “Uh, exactly what’s in your caldron over there?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know.” Mark dropped the spoon onto its rest. “If I did, then maybe I could do something to salvage it.”

  Joe found a veggie tray in the fridge and put it on the island bar. “Add cayenne pepper.” He removed the clear film and then crunched down on a carrot. “It’ll fix anything.”